


Cats in the Cradle

by Abyssiniana



Series: Stunted Cigarettes [1]
Category: Voltron: Defender of the Universe (1984), Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: A little Sheith towards the end, Brotherly Bonding, F/M, Gen, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Kerberos Mission, Shiro and Sven are half-brothers, Shiro's parents are divorced and he was raised by his grandparents, Their dad is a womanizer, a little Svemelle, mild violence?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-09 19:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14721908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abyssiniana/pseuds/Abyssiniana
Summary: Takashi Shirogane, top of his class, star of the school’s track team, spelling team champion, popular among the students, fresh out of middle school with the promise of a scholarship in America, into one of the world-renowned NASA branch for youngsters who ambitioned towards space exploration. Once he turned fifteen, he’d move to Arizona and just a little bit closer to his dream.But even after a decade of pretending he was okay, of making plans and having his life right where he wanted it, Shiro still felt like something was missing. Maybe someone.--in which an attempt to reconnect with his Father ends up uncovering a much deeper relationship with a boy who shares his face.





	1. I. prologue

It was hard for a child to understand why mum and dad were yelling. Arguments are inevitable in a couple, such as they are, but the louder they got the more unbearable they became, especially for a four-year-old.

It was the middle of the night when Takashi blinked awake, a tiny fist rubbing his sleepy eye. There was noise coming from downstairs, familiar voices raised above the tenderness he was used to. An orchestra of breaking dishes hitting linoleum and open-palmed slaps striking flesh followed, making the boy quiver underneath the space theme sheets as if the vastness of the universe in his bed could keep him safe from the monstrosity that overtook his parents.

The discussions had become regular as of recently; they began over little things, such as peas left in the corner of the plate at dinner (and the bitter remark that another woman might be cooking his peas better), to things of greater significance, like dad leaving more and more often on business trips and coming back later, breaking promises of family dinners, forgetting birthdays and anniversaries, making excuses about his absence. Mum cried. She cried a lot, sitting at the kitchen table, shaking her head in disbelief as she held dad’s smartphone in her trembling hands, and then throwing the device at his face when he stepped into the division to pick up a beer from the fridge. Mum hit him and said bad words and demanded that he left.

He didn’t.

Instead, he held mum a bit forcefully until she calmed into a sobbing mess, cradling her in his arms as if she were the most precious person in the world for him; he even said so in a whisper, Takashi heard it in between hiccups and yelps.

This otherwise peaceful night, the young Shirogane debated whether it would be okay for him to slip out of bed; should he be reprimanded for being up that late, he’d just say he really wanted to pee! Yes. He would lie just this one time, only because he felt this brave need to protect Ma and Da from whatever foul creatures possessed them.

He peeked over the sheets and analyzed the shadows under his door, noting that the voices increased in both volume and intensity as his parents paced from the kitchen to their bedroom. There, mum yelled over more tossed items, and that was when Takashi decided to get up from the false safety of his bedsheets and open his door about a slit wide, just enough to spy on whatever was happening.

Mum was crying on the floor. Her face was hidden between her knees, features twisted like she had a real bad tummy ache, her hands forming fists that she banged on the wooden floor in her fit. Dad said nothing, heavy footsteps indicating that he was still there, moving within the two-step distance between the wardrobe and the bed. Then he crossed the hallway again, a large bag over his shoulder and his wife pitifully crawling after him, grabbing him by the ankle to stop him at any cost.

There were questions that Takashi couldn’t come around to voice, tongue heavy in fear, stomach turned in guilt. Was dad leaving again? Were they talking so loud because of him? Had he done something wrong? He sure heard mum yell his name in the middle of those adult words, which brought shiny constellations of tears to his lashes and a thick lump bobbing on his throat.

“Takashi.” his dad said, this time directed at him. Urged by a gesture, he took a step out of the room, just enough so that he’d have a clear view over the front door and he would’ve gone further – perhaps into the embrace his dad offered, – but he was roughly tugged back by a female hand, nude polished fingernails digging into his shoulder with a bit too much strength. The child winced, but simply looked up to his mother, rather than voicing his discomfort.

“Don’t go.” Mother pleaded, to which Dad simply shrugged and grabbed the bag he had prepared and exited through the front door without as much as a look over the shoulder. “Please, don’t go…”

Mum begged for Dad not to go.

But this time he did.

~*~

Coping with the absence of one parent was hard enough on a kid, but to have Mother moving on without him was the hardest. Father had moved out of reach immediately after the divorce – Norway, if Mum’s profoundly spiteful and bitter words were anything to go by – and not long after, she too met a handsome Japanese fellow, rich enough to make her forget her pain (and even her own son) through expensive jewelry and golden opportunities.

After dumping Takashi with his grandparents – whom he very dearly loved and owed more than he could possibly give back – his mother exited the picture about the same way as his father had: back turned, no proper goodbye, towards another life.

Ten years later, the boy told himself he should be over it by now. It was a chant he repeated every day in his head, as if repeating it would eventually make it true, and for a while it might’ve worked too.

Takashi Shirogane, top of his class, star of the school’s track team, spelling team champion, popular among the students, fresh out of middle school with the promise of a scholarship in America, into one of the world-renowned NASA branch for youngsters who ambitioned towards space exploration. Once he turned fifteen, he’d move to Arizona and just a little bit closer to his dream.

But even after a decade of pretending he was okay, of making plans and having his life right where he wanted it, Shiro still felt like something was missing. Maybe someone.

Grandpa stayed up with him one night, upon the roof of the little countryside house they shared, both reciting in unison the name of every visible constellation, the ones Shiro already knew like the back of his hand but adored nevertheless. They talked about this void in his heart, wisdom of years pouring out of the elder’s mouth in the form of tender advice.

“You’re meant for the stars, Takashi, and you’ll get there. You don’t need your father or your mother for that, not when you have that amazing brain and platinum will of yours.” A thin arm wrapped itself around Takashi’s neck, pulling him into a weak, yet unconditionally affectionate, embrace. “If you feel like you must reach out to your parents, then do it. I understand they’ve both been a permanent question mark in your heart and seeing these past questions you have wrapped up inside you answered might seem like a priority before you take the next step towards your future. Honestly, mago, what’s the worst that could happen? You already lived a life without them; the worst-case scenario is the life you currently have, and that’s not so bad, now is it?”

It wasn’t so bad, indeed, Shiro concluded, suppressing a cry when his ojii-san tightened the hug and said he was proud of the man he was becoming.

The next day, he called Mother for the first time since his 7th birthday. Grandma couldn’t help her nurturing concern, so she stood by Takashi with a supportive hand on his shoulder, during the couple times he heard the automatic voicemail message instead of the voice he hoped to. He might’ve tried again after a few hours, but the denial was clear; he should’ve preferred the silence after the first try to the dragged out feeling of complete exclusion of his mother’s life.

The following week, it snowed in Osaka.

He hated the strict dressing code at school which demanded him to wear a white shirt and a blazer, as well as a pair of pants that did a terrible job at keeping his legs warm, but rules were rules. There was a secret relief in knowing that this last week of December would be his last days in uniform.

On his way to the Academy, the fourteen-year-old stopped by the post office with a small envelope in his hands. He had rewritten the addresses and the whole letter about six times the night before, making sure the calligraphy was as spotless as his grammar. Would Father even understand Japanese anymore? That was a silly concern, the man had spent twenty-eight years of his life in Tokyo, where he had been born; ten years abroad might rust a mother tongue, but not enough to wipe it completely from memory.

There was no way of knowing if he’d ever receive an answer, but he shoved the thin envelope into the metal box anyway, allowing his heart to settle far from that limbo of uncertainty. Even if Father didn’t want anything to do with Takashi, he’d move on to the New Year with the clear conscience that, at least, he tried.

~*~

The Japanese school year began in Spring, the seasonal metaphor for new beginnings, but Takashi wouldn’t be joining his classmates for the first year of high-school. Instead, he had to wait until September, according to the American academic calendar, to begin his first year at the Galaxy Garrison. That meant he had nine months ahead of him to do absolutely nothing. 

Thrilling.

He found himself alone in the attic he claimed as a bedroom, sprawled over a salvaged couch with his earphones on, tutting to the vibe of The Beach Boys’ “Kokomo”. Even the fluorescent star shaped stickers in the ceiling bored him, after hours of faintly glowing into nothingness.

Mid-January and he had already reviewed the first-year worth of books on quantum physics to get a head start at the Garrison. What else was there to do? Try his luck at Advanced Math? He preferred to delay that one, for sure, and only pick it up when he really had to.

Cranky spiraling stairs complained at the weight of an intruder, barely audible over the chorus, but enough to make the teen open his titanium colored eyes.

“You could’ve called me, oba-chan, I would’ve gone downstairs!” Takashi snapped, with no real heat beyond the obvious concern for the old woman’s pained joints, nearly jumping out of the sofa to meet her by the staircase. He eyed her suspiciously, brow raising. “Is… something wrong?”

The smile on her face was sad, but still encouraging. There was a moment of hesitation, but after a gentle comb of her silver hair behind her ear, Grandma extended the envelope in her hands towards the boy. “From your father, dear.”


	2. II.

Takashi's breath hitched in his throat, doubtful and thick, uncomfortably increasing the lump of his Adam's Apple like three sizes. He gripped the strip of his backpack with more strength than he needed to hold it over his shoulder, his other hand equally applying too much force on the handle of the trolley travel bag. He felt like he was carrying too much even if he hadn't objectively packed too many items besides warm clothing, an adapter for his mobile phone and Nintendo chargers and basic hygiene products.   
  
The greatest luggage he carried was within his chest, he realized, anticipation weighing on him and delaying the pace of his trek across the airport. He mused about how gravity felt different in Norway, as if that was enough of a plausible excuse to slow him down.    
  
Maybe the hinges of his bones were rapidly freezing, along with his organs; maybe this would be the death of Takashi Shirogane; internal frostbite, which began at his lungs, stalactites stabbing the air out of him, and gradually expanded to the rest of his inner systems, ceasing their function and turning him into a statuette of ice, immortalized in his ridicule. He had underestimated just how cold the heart of a Norwegian January could be, even if a quick online research warned him about how it had been, in average, the coldest month in the country of the past years.   
  
If he thought he would die of something as natural - and quite honestly, pretty bearable - as cold weather, he surely wasn't prepared for the sight of the man standing by the waiting area.   
  
Straight black hair, lightly brushed with single strands of silver, eyes of a color that matched Takashi's own but wrinkled by age at the corners, face contorted into an expression of... longing? It was hard to tell, something between a grimace and a smile, with maybe a hint of regret. Confusion. Disbelief?   
  
Running his trembling fingers through the rebel strands of his hair, Takashi considered that he might be feeling a little bit of the same. No wonder.   
  
Ryou Shirogane, the man whose wide back had guest-starred in the nightmares of the young boy for years, faced forward this day and they stood eye to eye. He might've won several Oscars for Best Actor in the movie "The Biggest Gap in His Son's Life", but at that moment, in that sweet instant, he was simply “Dad”.   
  
" _ Musuko _ ...", Father saluted with a hasted half-smile once he decided he was within hearing range, arms hesitantly opening to welcome a hug that could - or not - be accepted. The offer hung generously for a while, maybe longer through Takashi's slow point of view, but the boy eventually approached, tucking his face between the shoulder and the neck of the man he considered a stranger. It... felt like a stranger too; cold, hard, distant. But he tried to look for something in the hands that rested over his shoulder blades, in the arms that pulled him closer, in the throbbing heart behind the ribs he felt against his own chest--   
  
But it didn't last nearly as much as he expected, the embrace dismantled and disregarded after only a couple of seconds; were ten years of silence and doubt worth only such a short moment? Takashi tried not to dwell too much on what he had hoped for and instead attempted to look forward to the time he'd have with this man. He blushed with shame upon realizing that he hadn't even properly greeted the man. With a polite bow, he began, eyes focused on the ancient remnants of a years old piece of gum that had been chewed off to blandness and stepped on until it merged with the floor.   
  
"D-Dad. Thank you for having m--"   
  
"Don't do that, boy. This isn't Japan.", the reprimand made the young teenager jerk straight immediately, breath dying in his throat. He was aware of the social differences in Scandinavian countries in comparison to the environment and strict norms he had been raised with, and maybe he should've thought about it, but there was a big turmoil of emotions threatening to rearrange every organ inside Takashi's body, so his mental priority was, somehow, to not break down and cry in front of his long-lost father, rather than consider if he was being a bit  _ too formal _ for the situation.   
  
"I'm sorry, sir.", he managed, any further words dismissed with a gesture.   
  
"Look, I... This is a bit unexpected for me.", Takashi nodded despite not quite grasping, dragging his bag as he followed Ryou, not daring to open his mouth as the man placed a cigarette between his dried lips. "I never thought you would contact me after all this time."   
  
"I'm sorry, sir.", for the second time, not even five minutes into the reunion, Takashi repeated himself and he wanted to slap this idiotic face of his. _ Stop making a fool of yourself. _ "I mean... As I explained in the letter I sent, I merely wanted a chance to meet my family. To know where-... or who, I come from, before I'm ready to move on to the next stage of my life."   
  
"Yeah, uh... I never read your letter."   
  
If his face could physically twist up into a question mark, it just did. There were a lot of meanings that could come attached to this reveal, all of such possibilities having Takashi biting his lip out of disorientation. Was he not... supposed to have come? If so, why had he received the ticket? There was no mistake, it had been booked with his full name. He must've remained silent for a while, because Ryou spoke up again.   
  
"I discovered this morning that you were coming."   
  
The frown on the Japanese boy's face was clouded with questions he couldn't bring his mouth to voice out. What was this supposed to mean? The envelope he received only a couple of days ago contained no words of response, but rather a home-printed sheet with a digital one-way ticket to Norway. The message had been clear, or so he thought, and dared to hope. Just as he did, his father wanted to bond. Reconnect. Blossom a relationship that had been lost too early. Had this been a mistake?    
  
"I don't understand..."   
  
"Neither do I, trust me, this shit was pulled behind my back. But now there's no sending you back without me looking like the bad guy, so you're staying. Hop in."   
  
Takashi took a while to compute the fact that they had arrived at an underground parking lot and stood right next to a black Jeep with thick Winter tires as tall as his hip. His trolley bag had already been pushed into the trunk and locked away, and Ryou's cigarette had been nearly puffed to the filter. Once it was tossed to the asphalt and stepped on, the younger Shirogane replied, but it might as well have been a mute remark, since it very likely wasn’t heard.   
  
"Y-Yes, sir."   
  


~*~

  
The trip to… somewhere, was spent in silence. Had he the disposition to admire the snow coated landscape he would’ve been marveled at it, the mountains looking like cupcakes topped with the most white delicious icing he could just reach to with his finger and lick clean.    
  
Takashi noticed the sideway glances he received from the man who drove, but if he wouldn’t speak, then neither would he. They both seemed to be deep in thought, turning their mental chessboards to inspect the pieces and figure out the next move.   
  
The King was the most important piece in the game, however the most vulnerable by itself. What was his weakness? What had brought Takashi all the way across the globe, away from home, to seek for? The desire to bond with his father, the hope for the reestablishment of a relationship that never was. His White King was his own fragile Heart, set to rule but doomed to fail.    
  
As the rules dictated, the White side of the tray takes the first step; that was the letter addressed to his father. The next move belonged to the Black player, and it translated into the one-way plane ticket Takashi had received.   
  
After that bold move, his Bishops, Knights and Rooks fought across the black and white board, dancing over the tiles with moves that defied logic, challenged pieces of the opposite color who wanted nothing more than to protect their fragile King. The pawns had been captured and occasionally captured others, the odds clearly favoring the opponent and tiring the young boy’s mind as much as a series of punches to the face would. The only thing he could do was a cross-examination as he contemplated his options (and moves).   
  
If his Father didn’t want him here… then who did? If Ryou hadn’t been the one buying the ticket, then who had? His grandparents would’ve been the type to sneakily pull such a “prank” and call it a gift, but they would never resort to a digital medium to acquire the ticket nor would they bother to lie about it and forge a letter, much less move forward without their former son-in-law’s agreement. His friends at school didn’t know him well enough nor had that much cash in their possession to do something like this; plus, when asked about his parents he simply disregarded the matter with a simple They’re divorced accompanied with an indifferent shrug to cut the topic short. He didn’t know what kind of life his Father lead here, but the golden band around the thick ring finger of his left hand was pretty self-explanatory. If Ryou hadn’t read the letter addressed to his home, then would his wife have been the one to…? Why would the current spouse of a man who had a fourteen-year-old son even consider inviting him over, without the husband’s permission?    
  
Could that be it? Takashi pushed a pawn forward.   
  
On the other end of the mental battlefield, the Black Queen rose with murderous intent, an aura of danger stabbing Takashi in the gut. The King was the ultimate piece in a game of chess; in retrospective, the Queen was the strongest of the board, and her crown was sharp, eyes dead set on the remaining pieces of the white side.   
  
In the next move, his King had been forced to the corner of the board, gravity weighing on Takashi’s physical body and threatening to collapse. He couldn’t move in neither direction, the dethronement beyond shameful in front of what was left of his broken army of pawns.   
  
Chess was a game of guessing and action, and Takashi, would win it, more often than not. This time, however, the Black Queen was directly across from him and the cheque mate came as fast as they pulled up on a driveway and were greeted by the image that might have been a mirror. With arms crossed over his belly, as if he were feeling the physical pain of the imagined attack, Takashi was left to wonder.   
  
The game was over, he had lost; he felt as much. But the most predominant question, however, was:  _ “Who was his opponent in this game?” _ Who controlled the merciless Black Queen?   
  
The entangled spider webs of conspiracy theories were pushed away as he was invited to exit the Jeep and head towards the porch of a large two-floored mountain house clad in larch wood and topped with snow, much like the surrounding mountainous area. The faint glow of rainbow hued Christmas lights still adorned the edge of the roof, even if the holiday had been about a month ago. Either due to laziness or simple disregard, it made the front door welcoming, which drew the hint of a smile on Takashi’s face.   
  
Said smile faded just as the door slid open and a boy about his height and age and… face… came out. It might as well have been a walking mirror, if not for the more European features and the fact that this kid was wearing a bloody T-shirt in this insanely chilling weather.    
  
“Takashi. Meet Sven, my… my other son.”, Ryou introduced the two, but his eyes didn’t leave the Norwegian boy for a second. Then, bitter Scandinavian words spilled from his mouth, sounding like a threat or a promise to pick up an argument at a later date, to which this Sven simply rolled his eyes to and ended up nodding at. The older man looked over at Shiro before heading back to his jeep and driving off. Where to, Takashi didn’t know, but he wouldn’t ask either.   
  
He swallowed the lump on his throat, fingernails nervously digging into the palm of his hand as the dots connected and their eyes met in a clash.   
  
This other boy… was the victor. Sven was the Black Queen.


End file.
